


What We Left Behind

by geckoholic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2012-12-27
Packaged: 2017-11-22 16:07:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/611686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/pseuds/geckoholic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>He doesn't actually know his own name, and that, finally, makes an icy feeling settle deep in his stomach. It's one thing to wake up in a creepy basement without light or power, but to do so without even knowing who you are? Yeah. Shit. </em> - Dean/Castiel, amnesia fic in a post-apocalyptic setting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What We Left Behind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MollyC](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MollyC/gifts).



> I wrote a very different fic before I started working on this one, but decided a week before the deadline that I wasn't happy with it and needed to try something else. This isn't that second try, it's actually a third one. IDEK. But, anyway. My recipient posted some lines of dialog as prompts, and I took two of them, used them as a springboard and went from there. Also, I did my best to slobber OTP feelings all over this one, although the fact that I suck with non-downer endings probably shows. /o\ Making people as miserable as at all possible is more my speed, ahem.
> 
> Settlingbones read this over, and salty_catfish and rosereddawn poked at it mercilessly. I'm nursing a bit of a flu right now and my fogged brain prevented me from implementing some of their suggestions and concrit, in regard to structure and ending especially, but that doesn't cut down on their awesomeness. Last but not least, yohkobennington helped me brainstorm while I wrote this. Thanks, y'all! ♥ All remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> Title is from "Houses" by Great Northern.

The first thought that goes through his head, even before he opens his eyes, is that the place smells weird. Like decay, ripe and moldy. It's cold too, and dark, no windows or any other source of light. 

He sits up from the small cot, slowly, and throws his legs over the edge. It creaks a little, but the sound is as loud as a scream in the otherwise silent room. The ground under his feet seems solid, so he stands, pats himself down. He's fully dressed, jeans and t-shirt and over-shirt, boots and socks. Nothing hurts that bad; his shoulder aches a little, but that might be from sleeping on the cot, way too short and narrow for his body. 

In his pants pocket, he finds a book of matches, almost full, breaks one off and lights it. There's not much he can see in the faint light of the tiny flame and he's hesitant to light more than one match, but he can see enough to identify the room as a basement: raw stone walls, several rows of cheap metal shelves stuffed with things like electric barbeque grills or camping supplies, and wooden stairs leading up to a door. He quickly makes his way across the room, to reach it in the last light of the match, but no dice; it's locked, and the key hasn't been left. 

There's a light switch next to the door, but it doesn't work; nothing happens when he flicks it. 

He stumbles back to the cot in the dark, refusing to waste another match before he decided what he's going to do next. He could look for the key, but if there isn't one in here, if the room has been locked from the outside, that's not going to do him much good. No, he's going to check the shelves, see if he can find something to arm himself with, or to break the lock. 

The problem with the matches gets solved after the first minute or so of rummaging; in front of the second shelf he checks is an old-fashioned oil lamp, apparently at least somewhat full, because it lights when he puts the match to it. He also finds a huge heavy wrench and a sad, single golf club, but the rest of the crap on the shelves is of no use to him, toys, Christmas decorations and the like. 

There's a cupboard with tins and jars full of food in a corner, but he decides to save that for further inspection later; he's not hungry right now. Instead, he sits back down on the cot with his newly acquired weapons. There's a bag shoved under it, and he pulls it out to unpack it and take stock of its contents. It contains clothes, much alike the ones he's wearing right now. The whole nine; jeans and shirts and underwear. Underneath it are three small wooden boxes. The first he opens contains a whole array of ID cards and badges, but none of the names ping with him. Most of them sound vaguely familiar, but none feel like they're his. 

Which, yeah, might be an important insight. He doesn't actually know his own name, and that, finally, makes an icy feeling settle deep in his stomach. It's one thing to wake up in a creepy basement without light or power, but to do so without even knowing who you are? Yeah. Shit. 

He's still mulling over that one when he hears rustling outside the door, and then a barely audible creak when the door handle is pushed down. With one swift movement he shoots up from the cot and grabs for his wrench, posed for a fight. 

The guy that steps into the room drops a paper bag by the door, and then raises his hands as soon as he sees him, placating. He looks at him with hope in his eyes, like he's waiting for recognition, and his face falls when he seems to realize that he's hoping in vain. “Don't fear. I'm not going to hurt you.” 

“Who the fuck are you? Where am I? What _the hell_ is going on here?”

“I'm... A friend. Dean. It's okay. We're safe for now. I don't think anyone has followed us yet. It will take them awhile to catch our trail again.” 

“Dean, huh? I don't think that was on, like, any of the IDs...” He narrows his eyes at the stranger. “Wait, how'd you get in here anyway? The door was locked, I checked, and I didn't hear you using a key.” 

The guy cocks his head to the side, and Dean – he tests that name out in his head, finds that it fits – knows he's lying before he opens his mouth. “It locks from the outside, one only needs a key to open it if –“ 

“And why the fuck would a random-ass basement door have such a complicated lock mechanism? Hm? This isn't Fort Knox.” 

Blue eyes examine him carefully, like the guy wants to assess just how much of a flight risk Dean is, how likely he'll be to knock him over with the wrench if he makes the wrong move. “You're right. I shouldn't lie to you, and I won't try that anymore. I promise. Put the tool away, let me come over to you, and I'll explain everything. Okay?” 

Dean runs a hand down his face, curses under his breath. Every fiber in his body tells him that the other man isn't a threat, won't hurt him, that he's not the enemy here, but Dean doesn't trust his gut feeling. How could he? He doesn't even know himself, who he is, how is he supposed to rely on his instinct? 

Then again, considering the lack of tangible information, his instinct might be the only thing he _can_ trust. He lowers the wrench, puts it away, but makes sure it's still within reach. 

“Good. Thank you for trusting me.” The guy takes a few steps closer. His arm moves, as if he wants to extend his hand, but he seems to discard that idea, keeps it down. “I'm Castiel. We're, well. Close friends. And we're in this together.” 

“What exactly is _this_? What's going on?” 

“Dean, I don't know how much you do remember, but... The world has changed. It has gone to hell in a hand basket, as you put it.” The ghost of a smile plays around Castiel's lips, but it's gone as quickly as it appeared. “And we're running. Because we know what'll happen if he catches us.”

“And who's _he_? Start talking in full sentences, man.” 

Castiel's face crumbles, a grimace like he's in pain. “Your brother, Dean. Sam. Do you remember Sam?” Dean shakes his head, and Castiel takes in a deep breath before he continues. “He tried to save us all, but it didn't work, and he, ah. He lost himself. To something dark and horrible.” 

That still doesn't make a lick of sense, but Dean hesitates to press on. Saying all that clearly hurts Castiel, and Dean's got a hunch it's not just for his own sake. Something tucks at the edges of his memory, and he lets himself fall down onto the cot, blinks up at Castiel confusedly. “I said that? About the world going to hell in a hand basket?” 

“Yes. You did.” 

“Okay, and how literal have I been with it?” 

The look on Castiel's face is so sympathetic, so struck down on Dean's behalf that Dean has to turn his gaze away. “Very literal, Dean. You were very literal.” 

He knew that. He doesn't have any idea how, but he knew it. “What do you mean when you say that Sam lost himself? The truth, Cas.” 

Dean doesn't know where the nickname came from, either, but it makes Castiel smile for a brief moment before he answers. “I think that can wait. You don't need to know yet.” 

“But I –“ 

“Do you trust me? You do, don't you?” 

That's another thing Dean can't explain to himself, but yes. He does. He nods again, at a loss for words.

“Then believe me when I tell you that you don't need to know, right now. It'll come back to you, when you're ready.”

 

***

 

The pager bag Castiel discarded when he arrived contains food; stale bread and cheese that's already hard and crumbling at the edges, old salami and a few candy bars. 

They eat in silence, and it doesn't take long until Dean has to fight to keep his eyes open. 

“Lie down. Sleep. I'll be watching out for you.” Castiel reaches for him, hand hovering above his shoulder, but he retracts before they actually touch. 

Dean kind of wishes he hadn't pulled back, but he doesn't follow up on that thought, too tired and worn out to examine it further. And then Castiel is walking away; he sits down on the stairs while Dean lowers himself onto the cot. 

When he wakes up again, it's daytime; the basement is still dark, but there's a sliver of light from underneath the door. Castiel is still sitting in front of it, like he did when Dean fell asleep. 

“You didn't sleep, huh? Did you even move?” 

“I told you I'd keep watch over you.” 

Something about that statement makes Dean grin; it's quintessential Castiel, that much he's sure of. “You're so weird.” 

Castiel smiles back at him, brighter than last night and with a trace of relief. “Yes, it's not the first time you pointed that out to me.” 

Dean shifts on the cot, but he doesn't get up yet. “We've known each other a while.” It's a statement, something he knows, not a memory. 

“That's true. How much do you remember? Has more of it come back yet?” 

There are a few images in his head – distant impressions like scenes from a movie he watched years ago – but they swim out of his reach whenever he tries to pin them down. There's Castiel, and a freakishly tall guy with floppy hair – Sam. Yeah, that's Sam. He remembers his brother. And he remembers that, for whatever reason, Sam now wants him dead. 

Dean sucks in a breath. 

“He's not really your brother, Dean. Not anymore. The Sam you knew has nothing to do with this, you have to hold on to that.”

That'd be good advice, probably, if it weren't for the fact that Dean has so few other things his mind could cling to. He knows Castiel and he remembers Sam and he's aware that the world outside that basement door isn't the one he was used to when he was still... Well. Whoever he had been before all this. 

With that thought, Dean rolls around onto his stomach and raises himself up, braces himself on his arms. “Can I ask you something?” 

“Of course.” 

“How come you stuck with me? I mean, when my own brother sends people out to kill me, why are you still around?” 

“Oh Dean, this isn't your fault,” Castiel answers, huffing a humorless laugh. “You're not hunted because of something you did wrong. It was trying to do the right thing that brought this fate upon us, actually.” 

“Didn't work out as we planned, huh?” 

“No, it really didn't.” With a deep, weary sigh, Castiel gets up to a stand. “I'll make another run into town. Don't try to go out there, it's dangerous, promise me that? You should try to get some more sleep, it might help your memory.” 

Dean's sure it's something he said, something he did, that he made Castiel angry. Sad. Maybe both. “Hey, I'm sorry if –“ 

“Stop apologizing!” With that, Castiel's out of the door, and Dean's left in the basement alone, dumbfounded. 

_Definitely_ something he said. 

He tries to lie down again, as Castiel suggested, but he's wide awake. Worried too, if he's honest, because if it's as dangerous out there as Castiel said, then it can't be a good idea for him to roam around alone. Dean wonders what it was that ticked the man off, so much so that he'd rather be out in a hostile environment than in here with Dean, but he's missing too many pieces of the puzzle to put them together in any way that makes sense. 

After a while, he gets agitated, tries the door – fuck Castiel, he's not the boss of him, and what if something happened to him? But it's locked once more. There's the possibility to kick it in, but that might be a short-sighted course of action, seeing how if he could get out, whoever's after their asses will be able to get _in_ and so he settles for exploring the bag – his bag – from the other day. He unpacks it systematically this time, instead of wildly rummaging around, sets the clothes in piles on the cot, unearths the other two boxes he didn't check yet. 

He's not as shocked as he probably should be when he finds them filled with shotgun rounds and bullets. They're on the run, right? I makes sense to be armed. And if there's bullets, then there's gotta be... yeah. The side-pocket of the bag contains two small guns and a knife. Kind of a dagger, really, long and curved with carvings at the side of the blade and everything. The weight of it is familiar, soothing and disturbing at once. 

“I should have known you wouldn't sleep. You have always been stubborn.” Castiel reappears out of nowhere. Dean didn't even hear the door open and close. The words don't seem to be meant as a reprimand, though; Castiel makes them sound soft and fond, less critique and more, well, fondness. 

Now, that's a thought. 

Dean doesn't reply. He turns the dagger in his hand to examine it more closely, but Castiel plows on anyway. 

“I'm sorry I disappeared like that.” He makes a step towards Dean, then stops as if he's not sure it's welcome. “Some things about you never change, no matter how often this happens, and it can be infuriating.” 

The meaning of that doesn't sink in immediately, but when it does, Dean feels it like a blow to the chest. “You mean this isn't the first time? I'm pulling the blank slate act regularly?”

Castiel looks tormented and taken aback, like he didn't mean for that to slip out. “Yes. It happens every now and then.”

“But why? What's wrong with me? Am I, what, fucked in the head?” 

“When it happened, and Sam changed, there was a fight. You barely made it out, body and mind broken. Most of your injuries healed, but not your brain. You received a hard blow to the head, and it's beyond repair. Your memories have been impaired.” 

Yeah, that's one way to put it. “So I remember, and then I don't, and round it goes?” 

“Basically, yes. I tried to get you help, but coming by a neurologist is hard enough these days, and doing so while on the run is all but impossible. And I can't help you, not anymore.” 

What Castiel would have been able to do to help someone who suffers from amnesia, Dean doesn't even want to know. He's got enough to process as it is. This being a condition instead of an isolated incident makes it so much worse. He's not going to recover and get better; or, apparently he will, and then it'll start all over again. 

“You know what, Cas, I think I'm gonna follow your advice,” he says. “Get some more shut eye, see if my brain's more cooperative after that.” 

 

***

 

The dream Dean wakes from isn't just a simple nightmare: it's cacophony and fright, a horror show beyond description. He shoots up from the cot with a gasp, his heart beating a mile a minute, and no matter how much he tries to blink them away, the horrific images of red and blood and people wailing in pain persist. 

Castiel sits at the edge of the cot, stares at Dean with worry. “Out of all the things you can't remember, I keep wishing this set of memories will someday be lost forever.” 

Memories; he said _memories_. The terrible things Dean saw aren't nightmares or visions, but things that happened to him and became branded into his brain forever. Impossible as that should be, he doesn't doubt that. 

_The world went to hell in a hand basket._. And yes, Dean knows what hell looks like. He swallows back bile, has a hard time not doubling over and puking on the floor in front of the cot. 

“Oh Dean, I'm so sorry,” Castiel says. He leans forward, cups Dean's face in his hand. Dean flinches, both from the touch itself and the tenderness of it, so soon on the heels of the dream. “Sometimes I wonder if forgetting everything, for good, wouldn't be the kinder fate for you.” 

Dean considers that, but he shakes his head. “No. I remember other things, too. Good things. Sam at ten, almost setting the kitchen on fire because some girl in school told him about birthday cakes, and he wanted to make me one. Shit like that. And you. Cas, I remember you.” 

He's exaggerating a little, maybe. He remembers bits and pieces, still doesn't have the full picture. But he's almost sure that, well. That they're not just friends.

Castiel's expression is unreadable. He cocks his head to the side. “Do you?” 

“Yeah. No. I mean, I know that you and me, we're...” He trails off; if he's wrong this is going to get real awkward fast. 

Castiel inches closer and tips Dean's chin up, just enough so he can look him in the eye. “Yes. We are.” 

And then he kisses him. When their lips first touch, Dean shies away; it's familiar and it's not and it's a little too much to contemplate. Castiel lets him, fingers still caressing Dean's jaw, but he dips in again, and this time Dean closes his eyes and lets it happen. It's a careful, tame kiss, slow and soft and barely any tongue. 

Some part of him had hoped that when he solves this part of the riddle, there might be a landslide, a rush of memories and knowledge, but there's nothing much. Just the certainty that this is right and good and what he wants, not just now, but _before_. 

Castiel is the one who pulls back. There's no expectancy in his eyes when he looks at Dean; a little hope, but nothing that Dean feels horrible for crushing when he shakes his head. _Nope. Still with the blank slate._

“It's okay,” Castiel says, strokes his fingers down the side of Dean's face once more before he takes them away. “You'll remember more, you always do.”

 

***

 

A little while later, while Dean's cleaning one of the guns he found – he can't recall being taught how to do that, but that he can and that it used to calm him, center him, keep his hands busy and his mind occupied – he notices Castiel looking over. It's not an uncomfortable kind of stare, not intrusive or demanding, he just... Looks. As if Dean's a sight he can't get enough of. 

“It's gotta be difficult. Living with me like this, when we, uh.” Dean waves his hand between them. “Have been together. Are. Whatever.”

Castiel doesn't answer for a long moment. His eyebrows crease together in thought. “We've been through worse.” 

That's not much of an answer, but Dean doesn't feel like imploring further. Some more memories flicker in his mind, but without context they're just pictures, weird little flashes of another person's life. 

The clashing sound outside startles them both. A second later, the door rattles in its hinges, then again, and again. Like someone tries to ram it, but less... Physical? Another series of snapshots claws it's way to the surface, black eyes, both Sam and him bound or flung to walls by sheer power of thought, and Dean shakes his head to get rid of them. Not now. He fumbles to put the gun he was working on back together, but Castiel shakes his head as he rises to his feet. 

“No, leave the gun. It won't work. The knife, get the knife!”

Dean has barely enough time to reach underneath the cot and into the side-pocket of his bag before the door flies open. The blade itself is still hidden when a woman and two men appear in the doorway, and Dean intends to keep it that way. They seem unarmed, but when their eyes flash black, like in the memory, he knows that's not saying much. He has to blink to see them clearly; the sun that floods in behind them hurts his eyes after all the time spent in the sparsely lit basement. 

“There you are,” the woman drawls. She grins at Castiel. “Knew I smelled the foul reek of your grace all over town, Cassie.” 

Castiel doesn't respond. His eyes narrow, and his expression closes off before he puts his hand out towards her, palm upwards. “I won't let you have him, you know that. Go back to your master and leave us alone.” 

“Tssk.” She shakes a finger at him. “You know what else I know? That your batteries are draining. Sam knows that too. Not long now and you won't be an angel anymore, but a powerless human vessel that holds your faded grace. And that's when we'll come and take what's ours. His.” Her head whips around, and she nods at Dean. 

It makes his skin crawl, the way she looks at him, like a wild dog would stare and salivate at a deer it wounded and wrestled to the ground. He keeps himself still under her gaze, death grip on the hilt of the knife he's hiding, even when she takes a step in his direction. 

Castiel moves to obstruct the way, positions himself between her and Dean. His hand is still outstretched. “Maybe I'm _draining_. But there's still enough left to expel you back to hell. Do you want me to prove that?” 

She doesn't seem to take him seriously until Castiel closes his eyes and the palm of his hand starts to glow with a faint blue light. Her mouth falls open a little, then, eyes flicking to Dean and back to Castiel. It's a cost-benefit equation, clear on her face; to go back with empty hands or risk getting killed. Or... Whatever it is Castiel would do to her. 

Eventually, she turns towards her henchman, points at the door. They make to leave, and she addresses Castiel one last time before she follows. “I'll be back. We're not done with either of you.”

 

***

 

They leave the basement by nightfall, don't take anything with them but Dean's bag and another one they found in there and filled with the jars and tins full of food. Dean's head swims with what he heard, what he saw, and fragments of memories that make things more confusing instead of clearer. _Angels. Demons. Hell._

And he doesn't doubt any of that. He knows it's all true, just like he knows that Castiel's not half as confident as he pretended to be. “She was right, wasn't she? About your... What'd she call it, grace?”

Castiel keeps his eyes straight ahead, doesn't look Deans way as they walk. “Yes, she was.” 

“And what are we going to do then?” 

“We'll fight them off in other ways. Your knife. Exorcisms. You and Sam managed without angelic powers for years before you met me, and so will we,” Castiel says.

Dean can't quite muster up the confidence to believe him, but he doesn't have the heart to disagree either. He lets his eyes wander as they hike past abandoned houses, ransacked shops, cars left by the roadside. He wonders if there's anyone else left, or if they're alone, but he doesn't dare ask. 

Around sunrise, Dean stops them at a high fence on the outskirts of one of the larger towns they passed, with a huge iron gate that defies its purpose by hanging ajar. He bats at Castiel's shoulder, points down the driveway to the goddamn fucking palace of a place; he thinks he even spots a pool and something that might be a tennis court. “Let's stop here.” 

Castiel doesn't look convinced. “That's not exactly an inauspicious hiding place, Dean.” 

“Maybe not, but it's a lot closer to Fort Knox than that basement. Look at the fence, the gate, and the house looks pretty solid too. It'll do for the night, at least, huh?” At Castiel's continued doubtful stare, he adds, “And hey, after the day we had, we deserve a treat. Right? A real bed, maybe see if the shower's still working? I could go for a shower, even if it's a cold one.” 

“I don't sleep, and I don't need to shower either,” Castiel says, but he takes off through the gate anyway. 

Dean fist-bumps once before he follows him, and he thinks he hears Castiel laugh under his breath. 

The place _is_ pretty nice. It's a bit unkempt; the main door hangs open as well, it's obviously been ransacked more than once, and there are leaves in the hallway and traces of animals that sought shelter here. But it has a generator, which means light, and a stove to heat one of the cans of ravioli they took from the basement; the food they find in the kitchen was mostly fresh or frozen and has long-since rotted away. 

As they sit on the floor in the spacious living room – there's a sofa, but the wide window behind it has a few cracks and exposure to wildlife and the elements didn't do it any favors – and eat, Dean can almost forget the situation they're in. It's not the first time he's squatting, that much he knows, although all the half-memories his mind coughs up at the thought contain Sam in some way. 

Dean doesn't remember more than vague impressions of his brother, but even so he sees him every other time he closes his eyes, expects to turn and find him there more often than he'd admit out loud, a phantom image of _Sam_ always on the fringes of his mind. Funny how that works. 

He shakes the thought away. Sure, he still doesn't know himself very well, probably won't ever again, but he doesn't think he's ever been one to sulk and wail over things he can't change. 

Castiel looks up from his bowl, spoon halfway to his mouth; eating is another human urge that doesn't quite click with the messy, undefined set of memories Dean does have of him. He cocks his head to the side, in the bird-like way that's both familiar and sort of otherworldly. “Dean? You okay?”

And yeah, Dean can see why he fell for him, way back when, before he fucked up his brain. There's a fair chance that the person right in front of him has changed, had to, and there's a sadness and weariness to this Castiel that doesn't match any of the fragments Dean remembers. But when he looks at Dean like that, world narrowed down on Dean like he's the biggest and most fascinating mystery he ever encountered, something deep inside begins to stir. Familiarity might be a part of it, but it's not all there is.

"Yeah," he answers, and it doesn't take much effort to conjure up a smile. "I'm okay." 

After they're done eating, Dean tries the shower while Castiel keep vigilance outside. The water is cold and he has no soap, but it feels good to get rid of grime and dust. He leaves his old clothes to soak in the sink, puts on a new set of jeans, t-shirt and overshirt that he took from his bag before he rinses them out. 

When he's done and walks back into the living room, Castiel still sits on the floor, back resting against the wall by the non-functional chimney with Dean's bag by his feet. He doesn't seem to have moved at all. “Was the shower enjoyable?” 

“It was nice, yep,” Dean says. He hangs the wet clothes over the sofa to let them dry before he sits down next to Castiel, doesn't resist when Castiel raises his arm to pass it over Dean's shoulder and draw him in. 

They share the silence of the house, watch the afternoon sun paint shadows in every single corner, strange patterns caused by the broken glass of the windows. There's a metaphor in there somewhere, but Dean's pretty sure he's not the type to go looking for it.


End file.
